


Corrosion

by annunziatina



Series: "Nobel" Metals (A Noah x Isobel Coda Series) [5]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode Tag s01e05 - s01e07, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 05:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18176663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annunziatina/pseuds/annunziatina
Summary: (Takes place between Episodes 105: Don't Speak and 107: I Saw The Sign)Catch phrases from Al-Anon and self-help gurus play in Noah's ear like the affirmation tapes his mother used to listen to when he was a kid.  Of all the phrases that try to encourage, but taunt instead, there's one that plays louder than the rest: ‘you don’t know what you have until it’s gone’.This one-shot can be read on its own.  Or it can be read as Chapter 5 of the series.





	Corrosion

**Author's Note:**

> Corrosion  
> noun  
> Corrosion is a natural process, which converts a refined metal to a more chemically-stable form, such as its oxide, hydroxide, or sulfide. It is the gradual destruction of materials (usually metals) by chemical and/or electrochemical reaction with their environment.  
> \- When environmental conditions are stressful enough, some metal can begin to crack, fatigue, or become brittle and weakened.

The first days without Isobel are sharp edges and blinding colors. Nothing like the tranquil earth tones of the Evans-Bracken home, the safe space Noah and Isobel had carefully built and decorated with each other in mind. Noah’s thoughts race through the empty halls, echoing, loud and incessant. Dreams shock him from sleep. His quickened pulse and shortened breaths keep him from settling again. 

The moon hangs heavy and fat all week. It sits perfectly in frame of the bedroom window on Isobel’s side at 3 AM, casting white light into the bedroom like a beacon waiting for Isobel to return. Noah spends long nights staring at Isobel’s nightstand: the lamp she’d purchased because it ‘had good lines’, her bullet journal and pen, the glass of water she’d poured and never drank. Noah becomes well acquainted with the sounds of the house settling and the weight of his own sigh. 

Mid-week the edges blur and colors begin to blend. Noah isn’t sure if it’s for better or worse. His thoughts continue to ruminate but without sleep the words are muddled mantras. Catch phrases from Al-Anon and self-help gurus play in his ear like the affirmation tapes his mother used to listen to when he was a kid. 

Noah thinks maybe ‘one day at a time’ only works for other people. He thinks ‘time heals all’ means much less than ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’. He knows ‘keep coming back’ refers to meeting attendance, but, my God, he wants it to mean he and Isobel will find their way to each other before the week’s end. He thinks, for brief moments, that he’d rather have lived in ignorance for just a little while longer. Of all the phrases that try to encourage, but taunt instead, ‘you don’t know what you have until it’s gone’ plays loudest and clearest when he lies awake in their empty bed.

Noah doesn’t know why he does this to himself: sleeps on her pillow, marks time by the clock on her nightstand. He drags back the covers and pushes himself from Isobel’s side of the bed. He doesn’t disturb her side of the room otherwise - it’s still the mess of clothes and miscellaneous from when he ransacked the place in search of contraband. The evidence of his anger, of her deceit, churns his stomach still.

Noah opens the window to the dark night and takes shallow breaths of the dry desert air. Sitting on the windowsill, looking out at the quiet world, Noah wonders if Isobel is alright. 

He imagines she’s well, even if she’s still drinking. Michael and Max are looking out for her; Noah trusts they’ll call if there’s any news. For now, it’s well within reason that Michael, Max, and Isobel think they’re doing Noah a favor by keeping their distance. 

After all, Noah is the one who asked for space. And Isobel has always been good about giving Noah what he asks for. 

_She always listened,_ Noah reminisces fondly. He closes his eyes to cherish the flickering spark of comfort. _She’s still listening._

Noah wonders if she’ll be listening when he asks her to come home.

The clock reads 4 AM and Noah knows he won’t be texting anyone for updates this early. He knows he won’t get any sleep either.

Leaving the windowsill and heading toward the dresser, Noah strips off his shirt. He might as well get a start on his day - a run and a shower. Healthier than stewing in the same thoughts that have been weighing him down for the better half of the week.

 

Exhaustion makes it so Noah can’t multitask like he used to, but devoting full concentration to his work is a good thing. A few extra hours at the office are a benefit to the firm and their clients. 

However, even with the long day under his belt, Noah is nowhere near ready to face the empty walls of his home. At the grunt of someone clearing their throat, Noah looks up from his computer. He meets the frown of his youngest associate with a sigh. 

“What is it?” Noah pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to think about how long Kennedy may have been standing there waiting to be acknowledged. 

“Um, you- we have trial tomorrow.” Kennedy lays a thick file on Noah’s desk. The rubber bands holding it intact strain against the wealth of documentation they hold. “I spoke with Chris Flores; he’ll accompany his parents to the courthouse.”

Noah nods and his fingers walk their massage up between his eyebrows where they continue to press circles against the flat bone of his forehead. “Great.” Noah blinks down at himself and notices immediately the contrary. He’s dressed in his usual dress shirt and sweater, but without court, he’s taken the liberty of foregoing the formality the rest of his law partners keep up at the firm.

Standing before a judge means he will be expected to wear a suit - and tie.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Noah says dismissively. He glances up at Kennedy, then turns to his computer again. Even with a case as familiar as Flores v. Flores, Noah can reasonably stay at the law office well into the night to prepare for trial.

“I’ll meet you at the courthouse, then,” Kennedy says, catching the hint the conversation is over. “Eight o’clock.”

Noah is grateful for the reminder, but he doesn’t say so.

 

The sun isn’t even up yet, but like usual Noah can’t sleep. A breeze from the open window sweeps through the bedroom and Noah braces himself against the cold. Still flushed from the shower where he stood too long under the heat and steam, he shivers. Goosebumps rise on his skin. Stubble scratches his palms as Noah scrubs exhaustion from his face; he still needs to shave. But there’s no rush. He can stand at the mirror a little longer. 

He’s been too wrapped up in his own mind, alternatively zoned out or hyper focused, to maintain a healthy routine, but he gets by. The shadows on Noah’s face speak volumes of his sleep or lack thereof. Noah puts his hand over the reflection of the moon on the glass, shielding himself from it’s curious stare. He hopes his clients won’t notice the change in him, and that the opposing counsel won’t find a way to take advantage. Pulling his belt a notch tighter, Noah tells himself to hydrate, at least. 

It starts as a fleeting thought until he remembers himself. He handles stress better when he takes care of himself. Looking into his reflection, Noah tells himself slower. “Water. Food. Sleep.” _Basic shit. Just do the basic shit, man._

The dry cleaning hangs in thin plastic over the edge of the dresser beside him. Noah listens to the rustle of the cover that’s kept his pale blue shirt safe and protected. He wonders how anything thin and transparent could ever be expected or able to keep out the elements. But it does. 

The shirt beneath the plastic is free of desert dust, it's dry despite the sun shower of yesterday afternoon. It hangs unwrinkled and unblemished despite being handled by someone who can’t even protect themself - from heartache and lies. 

The boutique bag looped on its hanger begs for attention. Noah opens the small, gift wrapped bag, pulling the ribbon bow and laying the tissue paper aside. The roll of fabric it carries fits easily in his hand. The tie is not unique. Its silver-threaded details are rough under Noah’s thumb just like a dozen other ties in his collection. The design neither catches his interest nor offends him. It holds no memory or connection to Isobel. And yet, Noah looks down at the diamond-patterned silk and he has to remind himself to breathe.

Noah takes in a lungful of air and lets it out again in a rush. He has court today, and there's no reason he can give that would excuse him for showing up half-dressed. So he stands in front of the full length mirror in the bedroom he once shared with his wife, the bedroom he hopes to share with her again. 

He stares.

Noah brings the tie to his neck, then drops his hand. It's the second time he's bolstered the courage to even move that far. He's managed, at least, to button the top of his collar - and that's the closest he's come to wearing a tie all week.

Noah runs his tongue along the back of his teeth as he grinds his molars. The muscles at the corners of his jaw twitch as he fights his own mental blocks. _It’s a tie_ , he tells himself. _It’s an article of clothing that completes an outfit and allows me to do my job without being reprimanded for a completely avoidable mistake._

Noah averts his gaze from the reflective glass, unable to look at himself any longer. His face is only angles and color - an out of focus image that stopped making sense a long time ago. 

A glance at his watch informs him only a few minutes have passed, but that can’t be right. He’s been standing in this spot all morning, all day. Maybe twelve hours have passed; maybe twenty-four. Either option makes more sense to Noah’s foggy brain. He scrutinizes the slow glide of the second hand with a scowl. 

Unwilling to waste anymore time and unable to place the tie around his neck, Noah wraps the fabric around his palm. He remembers the way Isobel used to do it after untying the silk from the bedpost. She was always able to smooth out the most obvious wrinkles. Noah winds the tie tighter than Isobel, feeling it squeeze and watching his fingers turn red. 

It’s more likely to crease like this, wound around his palm, held within his fist. It would have been better to roll it upon itself and tuck it in his briefcase. Noah doesn’t care. He takes the tie in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He’ll deal with his attire at the courthouse.

 

As soon as the judge dismisses them for the day, Noah reaches for his neck. He has to loosen the tie, just a bit. The pressure at the base of his throat is too familiar, too intimate for him to handle while he discusses the plans for tomorrow’s continuance with his associate. 

Kennedy slides a paper cup of water along the bench between them and raises an eyebrow at Noah in concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Bracken?” 

“No, I-” Noah stops himself. It’s not like him to drag his home life into work and yet his problems with Isobel have already left a mark. Nonetheless, he won’t burden the firm’s youngest associate with his marital issues, certainly not in the bustling hallway of Chavez County Courthouse. 

There’s another Al-Anon meeting tonight in Caprock. Maybe someone there will have some insight into when this swirling pit of empty will mend itself and his guts will return. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? Look, I know it’s none of my business…”

“Good,” Noah says. He snaps his briefcase shut and stands from the bench. “For a second there I thought you had forgotten.” 

It’s not fair: Noah’s tone nor the way he glares at the younger lawyer; just a moment ago it was Noah who had almost slipped into the grey area of what should be kept personal in a professional setting.

“Sorry, sir.”

At the title, Noah’s eyes snap to Kennedy. Noah watches as his associate stacks the full water cup into the empty one, then drinks. 

_‘Sir.’_ That’s not a word Noah should pay attention to anymore, not like this. When Isobel had said it… when Isobel had called him ‘Sir’ it had been a term of endearment. Isobel had called him ‘Sir’ and Noah had called her ‘Ma’am’ and it was like they had been in their own world. It was like they could shut out the chaos and bullshit that insisted on existing beyond the walls they’d built around their marriage. 

But walls weren’t strong enough to keep out temptation. A thought rises, unbidden: _a person can only be tempted if there is discontent, if something other looks better than what they already have._

It takes Noah a minute before he realizes he isn’t blinking, but with a shake of his head, he comes back to himself. 

The chair scrapes beneath Noah as he stands. “I have to go.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bracken. Sir, I-”

Noah puts his hand up in a sign to stop and Kennedy’s apology dies. 

“I have to go,” Noah says again. 

The walk to the car takes too long. The knot of the tie is too tight. It will take two hands to undo but Noah hooks his forefinger under a loop and tugs in a desperate attempt to get the damn thing off anyway. Once he’s at the car, Noah dumps his briefcase behind his seat and scrambles with both hands to unknot the tie.

He gets it off after a struggle, then opens the top buttons of his dress shirt one, two, and three. 

Noah closes the sun visor against the roof of the car with a slap, disgusted by the sunken circles under his eyes, his ever-present frown, the bare-throat reminder that he hasn’t seen Isobel in almost a week. 

At home, he changes into something less reminiscent of work, less reminiscent of _play_ , and thinks about that meeting in Caprock.  
He thinks about calling Isobel.  
He thinks about calling Michael fucking Guerin.  
He thinks about calling _Max_. 

He thinks he blames Max. Max, most of all. And is that strange? But it is Max, isn’t it; it’s always Max. Max is Isobel’s ‘person’: the one who knows her better than anyone, loves her ‘better’, loves her ‘more’. Max is the one who demands more of her than she can give. Max is the one who should have seen what has been happening. And if Max really is her person, then he did see it and he let it go on; he let it get this bad. 

Noah rakes his hands through his hair, hating himself almost as much as he hates Max. No… more. More, because Noah wants to blame Max, because Noah wants a scapegoat. If overlooking Isobel’s addiction is Max’s fault, then that relieves Noah of some of the burden. If it’s Max’s fault, then Noah is free to be the hero. 

Noah doesn’t feel like a hero. How many heroes toss the ones they aim to save out of the safety of their home? How many heroes pass off the challenge of helping their loved ones to another person? 

Noah’s mobile phone sits on the coffee table just waiting to be picked up. His fingers curl and flex with the desire to take the device in hand and call someone, anyone.  
To call Isobel and ask how she’s doing.  
To ask her if she’s ready to talk, if she’s ready to get help.  
To call Michael and thank him for taking her in that first night, to apologize for handling this thing the only way he knows how.  
To call Max for insight into dealing with his wife from the one other person who might have a clue.

But Noah won’t apologize for asking for the truth. And he won’t deny needing honesty from Isobel. That much is non-negotiable; Noah won’t stand for a marriage of lies.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
